


Quick on the Draw

by roughmagic



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gloves, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You jerk Ocelot off. But also, Ocelot sort of jerks himself off, and you're there, but... listen, Ocelot gets jerked off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quick on the Draw

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of an exercise in writing more regularly as well as keeping things short, this isn't anything super serious, but I did want to share it. This... weird... silver... Russian cowboy fiend is just... too much. Too much to handle alone.

You knew when Ocelot gave you the passcode for his quarters that it was less a reflection on how much he trusted you and more a reflection on how little he cared about the room.

The joke’s on him, though, because you like it. It’s larger than your quarters, and the window’s a bit bigger. Enough that he had blinds installed, and you get the pleasing experience of throwing them open to let in the late afternoon sun, the sky over Mother Base painted deep, smoky orange. Dust motes circulating in the still air are highlighted, drifting over stacks of books and old folders full of secrets.

Everything in his room that matters could be thrown into a single bag, the rest of it being replaceable or unimportant. You’ve stopped worrying about which category you fall into, and you think he likes you better for it. He’s not looking for a life partner or unadulterated attention, it’s just enough that you’re present with him. Cats, after all, are very independent.

You’ve teased him about it before, but he doesn’t take it to heart. Not a lot gets under his skin, or he’s at least good at hiding it. And he lets you get away with a lot, comparatively. 

Shifting the bag you’d carried in off your shoulder and onto the crowded table, you set out the metal thermoses and sealed-tight storage boxes you’d regretfully packed up before you came here.

You’d been haunting old recipe books for the last month, putting poor Jade Tree Frog through a lot of failed attempts at cooking unfamiliar dishes, but you’d gotten the hang of it. You had finally made some passable Russian food, and he’d stood you up. 

It wasn’t like him to be late, but it _was_ like him to prioritize work. Ocelot had warned you that he didn’t mind playing house sometimes, but the realities of his work always came first. You knew that, and you didn’t begrudge him that, but you still let yourself feel a bit disappointed. It would’ve been a nice break for him. _And_ you had wanted to show off, just a little. 

Just on time to keep you from feeling any more dejected, the door slides open behind you, and you struggle not to jump at the noise of it. Turning, you look enough to see that it’s him-- scarf, gun, boots-- before turning back to finish arranging the canisters. Not a particularly elegant looking meal all sealed up like that, but that ship had sailed a few hours ago. 

“Long day?” You ask, listening to his boots on the floor as he crosses the room, settling down on the couch with a creak of leather.

“Something tells me you know the answer to that.” His gaze flicks pointedly to the abandoned lunch. “I see I’m even later than I thought.”

“I’m not mad,” you say, turning around to lean against the table and watch him, fully aware he couldn’t care less if you were angry. You had learned a while ago it’s pointless to try and be mad at Ocelot, that he either outlasts your silent treatment or smarms his way back into good graces. 

He’s doing that now, and you’re sure he has to know it. Splayed out on the couch, not enough to be obvious but still inviting, like he’s just waiting for you to curl up in his lap. Still just the slightest bit flushed from the windy salt air outside. 

Ocelot looks you over with the same obvious appreciation and you can feel the weight and warmth of it. A gloved hand the color of a rose pats his thigh. “Why don’t you come over here?”

He could’ve ordered you and you would’ve gone, but you like the coaxing tone he puts into it.

You swing a leg over his and straddle his lap, resisting the impulse to grind against his thigh. His eyes sparkle a little like he knows you were thinking about it, but you put it out of your thoughts and settle your weight comfortably, resting your hands on the front of his chest.

“So,” You play with the hem of his scarf, coyly. “Did you have a nice day, dear?”

“I’d say it’s getting a little better.” His hands run up your thighs, slow and rhythmic. “And yours?”

“Oh, you know,” You unloop the scarf from around his neck, idly folding it and laying it over the back of the couch. The sight of his bare neck shouldn’t be as distracting as it is, and you consider leaving a mark there. He wears the scarf even in the heat, nobody would know.

You make the mistake of glancing and catching his eyes, and you can almost feel yourself handing the reins over to him. Not unwillingly, never unwillingly-- it had been fun to think about seducing him, and you know if you pushed that he’d let you keep the lead, but you don’t think you want it. 

It’s nice to just be his. 

Ocelot chuckles deep in his throat as you sigh, pushing yourself up close and getting comfortable leaning against him, head resting on the long line of his shoulder. He smells good, deep amber cologne and the fresh smell of horses. You like to think of him out there, spending hours currying D-Horse in a kind of working meditation. 

He runs a hand up and down your spine, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Much as I hate to say it, I _do_ have somewhere else to be today…”

Sitting up, you push yourself away and pretend to be affronted. “Are you telling me to get a move on, Ocelot?”

“No, no. You take your time, and I’ll take mine,” he murmurs, and you can’t deny the way that rolls your stomach over. He doesn’t make empty promises. He disentangles one of your hands from the linen of his shirt just to kiss your knuckles, watching you carefully. 

It’s unfair that he can get away with anything after doing that, something about his pale eyelashes and how he isn’t asking for permission or approval, just a reaction-- it’s almost frustrating. Taking his hand in your own, you scoot higher up on his lap.

You kiss the pad of his thumb and make eye contact, smiling as his other fingers curl under your chin, thumb pressing until your mouth opens. You catch him mirroring you, lips parting slightly as he watches in a kind of hungry fascination, thumb dipping into your mouth. The texture of the red leather on your tongue is smooth and warm, tasting vaguely of metallics and gun oil.

Pursing your lips, you suck until the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile, before gently finding slack at the end of the glove with your teeth and dragging off as much as you can. Ocelot sighs as you lick upwards from his palm, tongue sliding through his pointer and middle fingers, before taking the tips of both into your mouth and repeating the process. “Enjoying yourself?”

You hum a small assent and maintain eye contact as you feel his fingertips experimentally pressing down against your tongue. By his ring finger, the glove’s much looser, and in the end, you drag it off him completely by the pinkie, holding it between your teeth for a moment like a prize.

“Shouldn’t put just anything in your mouth,” he murmurs, taking the other glove off himself and setting them aside, pulling you in close enough to kiss. “You don’t know where my hands have been.”

“I can guess where they’re going.”

Ocelot makes a soft _ahah_ noise and runs a hand up your neck to the back of your head, fingers carding through your hair and scratching pleasantly. “I might surprise you yet.”

The soft touch turns into a steady, insistent pull as he holds you there by the scalp, throat bared and the slightest bow to your back, leaving you open to his touch. You let yourself shiver when he presses a bare palm underneath your shirt, hand sliding against your stomach and around the curve of your waist. You love his gunslinger’s hands, steady and warm and fast, just as much well-oiled machines as his revolvers are. 

“My belt, if you don’t mind,” Ocelot breathes, and the last word’s barely left him before your hands are scrambling to undo the broad gunbelt he keeps slung around his hips, the buckle jingling. There’s a second one higher up with extra shells, but he doesn’t need that one undone. Not for this. 

His nails, neatly trimmed and always clean, dig into your back in a silent encouragement as you undo his trousers, touch lingering on the warm, worn corduroy. He’s been hard since his fingers were in your mouth, and you slide your hand appreciatively against the warm line of his cock, still under the thin cotton of his underwear. 

You feel him tense under you as you free him the rest of the way, and as you start to duck down to put your mouth to him, Ocelot pulls and pushes you back up, hand leaving your hair and instead guiding your face to meet his in a kiss, the tenderness not usual but not unwelcome. 

Long, slender fingers twine up against yours, and you’re always surprised at how soft his touch is, how easily he can be gentle. He molds his palm against yours and you let him use your hand, curling around his cock. Pressed so close, you can hear and feel as he takes a tight breath in through his nose, and you make a soft noise of delight.

It’s luxurious to see him unravel himself a little, and even nicer to feel him under your hand while he does it, hot and slick and bucking so slightly under your weight. 

“If this was all you wanted, I wouldn’t have bothered with lunch,” you gasp, caught off guard as his free hand slips towards your ass, grabbing and almost forcing you to rub against his thigh.

Ocelot makes a husky noise too short to be a laugh. “This isn’t all I want,” he rasps, accent rougher and hot against your ear. “Not by a long shot.”

You manage to get out a _Good,_ before he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck and wrings a higher, wordless sound out of you. His arm is iron around you, holding you tight and close until he finishes with a hoarse, intimate noise that makes you want to do something, _anything_ to keep him here with you until you’ve had your fill of him. 

His hand goes slack around yours and you work him down slowly the rest of the way, drinking in that color high on his cheeks and the faint prickle of sweat around his collarbones. Most of his come ended up on you, but there’s enough on your hand worth making a point to lick off. Ocelot puffs out a little Russian curse at the sight, and you can’t help but smile. “That isn’t going to work this time.”

“Maybe I just like how you taste.”

“Mm.” He gives you an exasperated look with no real annoyance behind it, shifting underneath you to pull out a neatly-folded handkerchief, taking your hand in his to clean it off. The methodical little courtesy is more endearing than you’d like to admit, and when he finishes you scoot higher up on his lap again, resting your temple against his.

Ocelot kisses upwards along your neck, gentle over where he’d been rough. The feeling of his mustache on your skin makes you breathe out a laugh, getting a pinch on a soft part of your behind in response. “You really can’t stay?”

“I really can’t,” he sighs, patting your flank. “But I’ll be back. Sleep here until then.” It’s an obvious reward, but you’re not so proud that you won’t take it. He knows you love sleeping where he does, even more so when there’s the lure of him joining you later on. Being his bedwarmer shouldn’t be so enjoyable. But it is, of course. 

Another pat on your butt signals it’s time for you to get off, and you roll your weight back over onto the couch, sitting lazily as Ocelot gets up, adjusting his clothes and making himself presentable. 

“Actually, there was some paperwork I had piling up that I thought I might work on.” Stretching, you’re careful to keep from watching him too closely, dangling some obvious bait. 

Ocelot stares at you as he buckles his belt, adjusting the set of his holster. “Did I ask if you wanted to stay?”

You settle back on the couch, smiling. Getting him to apply a firm hand isn’t hard, not when he knows you like it, and not when he likes it just as much. 

He finishes straightening himself up, shirt tucked in, belt done up with his gun hanging heavy at his side. Not a hair out of place, as usual. You make a point not to know what kind of work he’s going back to when he leaves like this. You can hope it’s playing support for the Boss, but it’s just as likely he’ll be confiscating someone’s fingernails for some answers. 

Nevertheless, you still arch up to meet him when he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I mean it, now.” He says it warningly, half-fondly. “If I have to go looking for you…”

He leaves the threat open, and you smile as you stretch back to kiss him again, just along his jaw. “You won’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm at 30-something percent completion of this damn game. I spend a lot of time making Ocelot tell me what goats are.


End file.
